Chapter Thirty-Two

May 9

It was 1:00 a.m. on Sunday morning.

Commissar Zmeya looked out on Manhattan from the new 110th floor of Tower Two, and like every other time he took in the view, he let out a long sigh.

In Russia, it was called Krakh. When things go to shit pretty quickly. The false broadcast on Red Radio being the latest setback.

They’d had it all, including the greatest city in the world, but for such a short time. And it all started to go downhill when that accursed clown plane showed up.

His radiophone rang, breaking his train of thought. He hoped at long last it was a report on the fate of the Isakov. But it was Sublieutenant Borski instead.

“Two things to report, sir,” he told Zmeya, who could barely stand talking to the disfigured man even on the phone. “We found the American guerilla air base in the Pine Barrens where you said it would be. We left them a message.”

Zmeya brightened up. Finally. “How many were there?”

Borski hesitated a moment. “About two dozen, sir. Americans for sure. The base looked like it could support about a hundred people and a few medium-size aircraft.”

Another piece of the puzzle suddenly fell in place for Zmeya. The planes that had attacked the Isakov were medium-size. Plus, there was a good chance the firebombing raid had been launched from the hidden New Jersey base as well.

“Where is the rest of their group?” he asked. “Are there eighty guerillas unaccounted for?”

“That’s unknown at the moment,” Borski replied. “My guess is they heard us coming and hid in the woods. As the army missile bombardment followed us in, they could all be dead by now.”

Zmeya made a note to send a battalion of Chekskis into the Pine Barrens immediately. Their mission: to look for any survivors and execute them all.

Then he asked Borski, “What is your second report?”

“Per your request, sir,” Borski said excitedly, “we are holding two thousand people at Yankee Stadium. I’m awaiting your final orders.”

“Have any of them come forward with information on who these American guerillas are?”

“That’s negative, sir.”

“Or where they are getting their support?”

“Again, negative, sir.”

“Have they dug their own graves?”

Borski nodded. “They have.”

“And have you come up with a more economical way of processing them? Something better than one bullet per person?”

“I have, sir.”

“You’re sure? You have everything covered, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Borski replied. With his next words, Zmeya would, in effect, be telling him to use knives to kill the hostages. It was Borski’s favorite means of dispatching human beings.

Zmeya was about to say, “Then make it so. …” when he noticed Dominique standing next to him. She had stolen up on him again, making no noise at all.

She was barefoot, wearing only a stunning short black negligee he’d given her when things were still good between them. Her hair was fixed and she was wearing makeup. If possible, she looked even more ravishing than usual.

“Let’s do it,” she said to him.

“Do what?”

She ran her fingers down his chest.

“Guess.”

It dawned on him an instant later. But he was more mystified than excited at first.

“Why now?” he asked, his hand blocking the phone’s mouthpiece so Borski couldn’t hear.

“I just thought I could get your mind on something else,” she said, looking him deeply in the eyes.

That also took a couple seconds to sink in. He pointed at the phone. “This? You want me to stop this thing at the stadium?”

She came very close to him and said, “I want to make a deal with you.”

“Spare them, and you’ll have sex with me?” he asked.

She nodded and moved in even closer; she was practically on his lap.

He just laughed. “My God, I’ve been living with a humanitarian all this time,” he said, mocking her. “Sometimes you just can’t tell.”

“This is how you say yes?” she scolded him. “After all your begging?”

He pretended to yawn. “How do I know it would be worth it? Or exciting enough?”

She didn’t say anything. Instead, he felt something touching his crotch—a familiar feeling. He looked down to see she had her huge hunter’s knife out again and was using it to softly jab his manhood.

It had happened before, but this time, her eyes told him it would go a different way if he didn’t play along.

“Do it my way,” she whispered. “Do it exactly how I tell you, and I guarantee, you’ll never want to do it any other way again.

She pushed the knife in just a little deeper. Zmeya was suddenly more excited than at any time in his life.

He removed his hand from the phone’s mouthpiece and calmly said to Borski, “Postpone the executions—until you hear from me.”